


the kinsman's part

by evewithanapple



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Amelia tells a story, and Violet has a different interpretation.





	the kinsman's part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsicality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/gifts).



“Tell me another story,” Violet says, and punctuates her words with a rolling chuckle. She’s had enough gin to soften the hard corners of the room, but not so much that she can’t still focus on Amelia. Amelia, who’s sitting next to her on the settee, swaying slightly back and forth in her seat. Amelia, who’s had no more than a few mouthfuls of gin, but has turned a hectic pink nonetheless. Her bonnet has gone askew, leaving her hair uncovered and shining in the candlelight.

Amelia gazes wide-eyed at Violet over the edge of her glass. “What-” She hiccups. “What story?”

Violet leans forward to catch a lock of Amelia’s hair, winding it around her finger in a curl. She loves seeing Amelia’s hair. She’s not sure why; there’s nothing exceptional about it, soft and chestnut-brown as it is. Any number of girls in Coven Garden could boast the same. But the fact that she sees it so rarely – that it’s always hidden beneath the cotton and lace frills of her bonnet – makes it all the more thrilling when she does see it. It’s like being let in on a secret.

“A Bible story,” she says. “I like your Bible stories.”

Amelia blushes an even deeper roseate and wiggles in her seat, evidently preparing herself for another tale. Violet leans against the back of the settee and waits.

“Ruth and Naomi,” Amelia says, with another slight hiccup. “Ruth was – was Naomi’s daughter-in-law, in the land of Moab. Naomi had come to Moab from Judea, during a famine. But after her two sons died, she decided she would return to Judea, and told her daughters-in-law not to follow her. They had no children, and Naomi had no other sons, so her family line would die with her. One of the daughters agreed to stay in Moab, but Ruth refused to go. She told Naomi-”

Here, Amelia pauses, eyes drifting shut. Her voice takes on a singsong tone, one borne of endless repetition and memory. “ _Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me_.”

When she opens her eyes again, they’re shining. She looks at Violet and smiles shyly, fingers curling around Violet’s free hand. “I’ve heard that verse read at weddings.”

“Huh,” is all Violet says. She’s attended precious few weddings in her life, and none that produced long-lasting marriages. She knows too many women whose husbands dissolved in a landslide of drink and debt to think much of wedded bliss. But the words are nice, even if the world she knows doesn’t support the sentiment. “What happened then?”

“Then . . .” Amelia frowns a little, as if she’s trying to remember. The gin must have addled her more than Violet realized. “Then they returned to Judea in time for the harvest. Ruth met a man named Boaz there, who was part of Naomi’s family. Because Ruth was Naomi’s daughter-in-law, the law said that Boaz had to marry her to preserve the family line. So he married Ruth, and they had a son who was King David’s grandfather.”

“That’s all?” Violet feels unaccountable disappointed; after such a start to the story, the conclusion feels limp and feeble. “She finds another husband, and that’s it? What was the point, then?”

Amelia turns towards her, eyes shining. “Because she  _followed Naomi_ ,” she says. “Because she carried on Naomi’s family name. Her husband wasn’t so important – it was that she gave Naomi a grandchild that mattered.” She clutches at Violet’s hand. “Because they were  _family_.”

Violet wrinkles her nose. If marriage is a foreign concept to her, family is barely closer to home; she has no memory of her own, beyond a few fuzzy images of a dirty room filled with dirty people. It’s something that, she must admit, she doesn’t quite understand about Amelia – how deeply devoted she is to her mother. Florence Scanwell isn’t the type of woman Violet thinks would inspire devotion in general, but even with the bonds of blood to explain it, she can’t quite suss out why Amelia cares so much. Why love a mother who drags her from pillar to post and spends her days screeching at strangers in the street? Why sit at the knee of someone who's kept her in poverty all her life, and all to prove some obscure point about her own righteousness? The closest Violet's ever had to a mother is Nancy, and at least the only thing Nancy's ever taken from her is the occasional penny to pay for supper. And even then, Violet wouldn't follow at her heels the way Amelia does Mrs. Scanwell.

“Mother likes this story,” Amelia says softly, as though she’s discerned Violet’s thoughts. “She used to read it to me when I was small, before her eyes failed. She told me that Ruth’s devotion to Naomi was the kind that should inspire anyone who heard of it.”

“Huh,” is all Violet has to say to that. She _thinks_ more: it’s fine and good of Mrs. Scanwell to preach devotion to her daughter when she’s the one who reaps the rewards. Would she say the same, Violet wonders, if Amelia was devoted to some other cause? If she had a husband to cleave to instead of a mother? What example would Amelia’s mother hold up them?

But she says none of this: she might have a loose tongue when she’s in her cups, but she at least knows better than to castigate Mrs. Scanwell to Amelia’s face. That’s a conversation to have at some other time, when they’re not curled up on the settee together, warmed by drink and enjoying each other’s company. They might as well enjoy the evening while it lasts, she thinks, and leave arguments to a later day.

Amelia leans her head on Violet’s shoulder, lips brushing the hollow of her neck. Violet shivers, though she’s sure Amelia must have done it by accident; she’s still too much of an innocent to seduce anyone on purpose. “Did you like the story?” she asks.

Violet lets her cheek rest on the crown of Amelia’s head. “I liked the way you told it,” she says, and that at least is truthful. Whatever she thinks of the content of Amelia’s Bible, she always loves listening to Amelia recount it: the way her face glows and her eyes catch fire. The way she always seems to find the sweetness in these stories and draw them out, like a honeybee sucking from the heart of a flower. She slides her arm around Amelia’s waist and kisses her forehead. “I always like stories when you’re telling them.”

She feels Amelia smile against her neck, and something uncoils inside her. Mrs. Scanwell can wait. Ruth and Naomi and their descendants can wait. Here, tonight, suspended in a golden bubble of peace, she and Amelia are together, and that’s enough.


End file.
